


hold my hand if it hurts

by orphan_account



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Underfell, Angst, Biting, Blood, Dubious Consent, Fellcest - Freeform, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Maso Pap, Masochism, Minor Character Death, Overstimulation, Self-Harm, Sibling Incest, Soul Sex, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, What am I doing?, Why?, papyrus is ooc but oh well, self-deprecation, what is this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-04-27 03:07:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14416356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Papyrus gained another LV.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags before reading.

***YOU WON!**

***Your LOVE increased.**

 

* * *

 

Papyrus hurt.

He ached, the pain swelling into grotesque contortions and gnarled twists until spots of black dotted his vision. Frightened, he clamped his eye sockets shut, and then opened them again.

The scene didn’t go away.

His SOUL was unbelievably cold and heavy, rooting him into place. There was a sharp, unbearable ringing in his head he couldn’t shake.

A mound of dust laid at his feet, sponging into the sodden, wet grass and mud. To be forgotten.

Papyrus’s jaw tightened to the hinge of breaking, and he trembled under the duress and the trauma.

Something pinged hard like a pressure point deep in his SOUL, and he was suddenly filled with a sickening surge of unwanted energy and tainted vitality.

 ***PAPYRUS 50ATK 50DEF**  
***LV 3**

He was slowly fighting with reality to convince himself that this wasn’t happening, and that it wasn’t real, and he’d wake up if he pinched himself.

He inwardly gulped, unprepared to face the truth, but he clenched his eye sockets shut again, and reopened them.

Everything was still and quiet in Waterfall. The silence was deafening.

The pinch didn’t work.

 

* * *

 

Papyrus barreled over to Undyne’s house before the feelings could chase after him.

The air was dense, humid, and suffocating. Or was it really the air? Papyrus couldn’t quite differentiate between the suppression of his non-existent lungs or the compact, nauseating billow in the pit of his SOUL. Hyper-focused and not quite seeing what was in front of him, he gasped for breath, tripped over tall, gangly grass and mud puddle pits, and desperately wished no one was around to witness his frontal display of mania. Fortunately, for the most part, Waterfall was less inhabited by monsters compared to the populous residents of Snowdin or the disorderly teenagers roaming in the forests.

Nothing could assuage him however; his thoughts were beginning to spiral out of his control, and even the serenity of Waterfall’s gorgeous ponds and sparkling, dreamlike wisps did little to soothe his rippling panic.

He felt condemned whichever way he turned and whichever patch of land he stood on; he was too scared to go home and too scared to revisit that cursed, desolate area where that poor monster’s dust was washed away by the flowing current into an indistinct cove.

Memories paralyzed him. He recounted that final, echoing cry when his attack had hit too deep. It—his victim—had a throaty, guttural voice, and his mind failed to repress the hallucination as it reverberated in the back of his skull on repeat. He had never heard such a forlorn sound.

Papyrus flinched—grief curling harsh and angry at his blackening SOUL—and continued to bound up to the quiet vicinity of Undyne’s tiny neighborhood until he reached her secluded abode. His body seemed to float forward while something gentler kneaded warmth in him with each deliberate footfall that fell into place from familiarity.

If anything, Papyrus could find solace in Undyne’s friendship.

Although, he wasn’t sure how he should handle it, or how to comport himself beneath Undyne’s gaze, and while sprinting up to her front, barren yard—still scorched after last month’s cooking session—he found himself frantically searching windows, looking for some sign of reassurance, or a glimmer of her face, or maybe a beckoning hand in invitation to shed their roles and commence in the lovable foolhardy that only they shared.

At the door of her house, before even a single notion of consideration passed through his mind, he was knocking on the solid wood, trying to collect some of the scattered threads of calm that were his only hope.

“CAPTAIN UNDYNE. I’M HERE FOR MY DAILY REPORT! UNDYNE?”

The rumble of his knocking fell deaf. He paused and waited for a minute or two more, and eventually the panic proceeded to rear its ugly head.

Papyrus hammered on the door, voice keying up a few high notes to feign his anxiety, “HELLO, CAPTAIN UNDYNE!? ARE YOU HOME?!”

But there was nothing. Not the disjointed melody of her piano, or the clamor of her cookery, or her familiar, wide-sharked smile to greet him when the door would fall away.

He grimaced and belted his fingers into fists—so painfully tight until the joints on his knuckles creaked—which shook at his sides. He allowed himself a chance to breathe through the frenzied nerves boiling in his marrow, and yet at the same time, the fresh EXP stirring in his SOUL filled him with unease like a dead weight.

He spat out a curse to his side and dug into his pockets to fish out his cell phone. He knew her number by heart and could barely contain himself while it rang. But the chime interrupted his cycle when a sudden recollection assaulted and made him tremble.

She would be disappointed in him.

Papyrus’s SOUL roiled with that buzzing thought. His tremulant phalanges loosened on his cell phone. He cringed and quickly hung up the connection.

Undyne should be disappointed with him because she was too cool and great and strong to allow herself to harm innocents. She made her own strength, her own determination, and surely now she would never consider letting someone like him enter her ranks after the felony he committed. She would never consider someone so weak.

His bones went numb at the realization, and he mentally scolded himself at how foolish he was for even thinking of confiding his mistakes with her. What did he hope to seek out? Her pity? Her support? Thing seized up in his mind, imagining horrible scenarios on how that would have transpired. He thought of all the wretched insults she would make. It would be tragic to lose her companionship.

He pressed the heel of his fist against his forehead, taking a few short, small breaths and feeling nauseous and wanting the vertigo to stop. Fast in saving face, Papyrus cleared his throat, looked around to ensure in his suspicious that he was alone, and straightened his spine to compose himself.

Papyrus steeled himself with a conclusive nod and marched away from her door to the borders of the quiet neighborhood.

Rainwater squelched in his boots and bled through his socks as he dragged his feet through the dank caverns. Wallowing, Papyrus turned on his heel towards the direction of Snowdin; there was nowhere else for him to go, no one else to talk to. He couldn’t find it in himself to confess to his brother, and he wanted nothing more than the sanctity of his warm bed and blanket to hide his shame under.

No, it couldn’t be helped.

Undyne will never know. As it should be.

 

* * *

 

Papyrus didn’t go home.

Instead, he sat alone and isolated in the farthest den of Snowdin forest for hours, away from the teenagers, away from the guard dogs. He was buried in a mound of snow, no intention of moving, knees curled up to his chin, and staring despondently at nothing in particular. He knew every square inch of snow that touched the timberland, and he sought refuge in his most favorite spot, the spot just directly beneath the sliding ice puzzle where the snow was most untouched in the drift. He liked to build his secret Snow Papyruses there; it was an old skeleton pastime—far back when he was a baby bones in a striped sweater with a crooked-toothed smile, and when Sans still had starlight shining in his sockets—and he and Sans would sneak off and horse around in the den, snowballs and snow forts a-plenty, until the cold soaked through their clothes.

It was one of his fondest memories.

He wondered what kind of childhood memories that monster had. His victim. He wondered if they had any family or friends. How much family? How many friends? What was their favorite color? Favorite place to be? Favorite food? Who or what would they have wanted to be once they left this place to explore the bright world above?

He sunk deeper, phalanges trembling but not from the frostbite. Now, no one would ever know.

The only thing that he would remember from that monster was their agonizing cry and the visage of their crumbling body as it dispersed to dust by his own hand. There was another stinging beat that shot down his SOUL and Papyrus rubbed at his front in an effort to alleviate the pressure.

He tried to close his eyes to regain his sanity, to leave it all behind, but karma was having none of that. Behind his closed eye sockets was the vision of his suffering in stark clarity, the final moments before his victim’s demise. His mind was going to that dark, scary place again, and so over and over, he repeated to himself the sort of ridiculous affirmations he made himself recite. He was great. He was strong. But he was breaking down and it wasn’t working.

Everything in him was hurting and his SOUL throbbed painfully. Emotionally weakened with guilt and budding with enough vile energy, Papyrus slowly reached inside his rib cage, underneath the confines of his armor, to where his SOUL resided and harrowed with anguish. He was hesitant to touch the organ, but there was a nervous tick echoing in his mind which urged him to inspect it. Papyrus poked at it with a single digit, and then he shuddered as the leather of his glove roughed along its surface. He palmed it down the middle, lightly smoothing over its natural heat, and he abruptly stopped with a haggard intake of breath when he felt a crust of his SOUL’s membrane had sliced apart.

A crack. There was a crack on his SOUL.

Unwanted tears bit at the corners of his eye sockets, and without warning, a wretched, sad sound croaked out of him. Not knowing how to cope with the affliction, he yanked his hand from behind his sternum like it burned. Nothing was more unbearable, now knowing how broken up he was, it would take an immense amount of fixing, healing, and rectifying to mend the damage.

Papyrus lamented; sitting in a heap of snow with a fragmented SOUL, numbed from the waist down, and seeing crooked. He needed to heal it—else it could rupture with more harm—and with more tender intentions, he gently coaxed his SOUL to emerge from his chest cavity. To ensure he was alone while performing the measure, he glanced around him in the den to confirm that no one was eavesdropping. It was dangerous to bare out a SOUL directly in the open, but once he felt reassured of his solitude, he hunched over and concentrated on the organ cupped in his palms. He held it gingerly as if it would shatter like glass and the magic thrummed like a heartbeat while the responding warmth radiated down his entire being.

His breathing shallow, Papyrus’s frown settled deeper; seeing it now, his sight coalesced into tunnel vision, focusing only on the gnarled, white SOUL reposing on his trembling hands. He stared down at the magical organ and swiped his thumb over the crack, hissing as the opening stung from the cold of his glove. The crack was an off-color grey, and the magical flesh which surrounded it welted like a bruise, blooming with an azure stain that was sensitive to touch.

It looked…pathetic. Sickly. Barely glowing or giving off life. He felt out of body, out of mind, and entirely uncomfortable looking at it, so weak and feeble. It wasn’t supposed to be like this; Papyrus wasn’t weak, he wasn’t feeble, but the reflections of his errors which costed the life of an innocent sent him spiraling. All the while, the mix of trauma and self-flagellation upturned his glare. The magic imbrued in the organ brewed over like poison, and he needed to release it to feel cleansed.

Crack be damned, all the poison needed to come out. He braced himself for the pain, bones locking into place.

This had to be quick, he couldn’t take his time like before; not like before when he had the darkness of his room for comfort in the late night, and had the edge of the razor knife--he pocketed from Sans’s room--cold and steely on his ulna. When the ache in his SOUL was too much to bare.

Hesitantly first, Papyrus squeezed his SOUL, resulting in a pressure that made it hard to breathe. Teeth grinding, his sharp phalanges punctured the magical flesh, piercing into the crack, and he lurched forward, doubling over in pain with a hiss. He watched with mesmerizing awe as a bead of blood-like liquid surfaced from his finger tip until it became a thick blob. He grunted, his head spinning in a vertiginous daze, but he didn’t relent and continued to harden his grip, squeezing his SOUL and finding satisfying solace when the liquid foamed over in droplets which ran over his phalanges in wet trails. Steadily, his HP depleted by a few dozen points. The fluid that he rubbed between his thumb and forefinger made him feel…here. Alive. He liked to see it, the evidence of what was left grueling, stained, pained, and dark. It was better for him to be able to witness it—raw and laid out bare—removed from his insides like muck and decay, so he knew the feelings were real.

He released a long, drawn out sigh he didn’t realize he was holding in, body numb, eyesight fuzzy and mind dim, empty. It was the calmest he felt all day.

The serenity was cut by a cautious, fearful, small voice.

“…Papyrus? What? What are you _doing_?”

His instincts sprang into attention. Papyrus’s jaw snapped, and clarity flashed in his head before he scrambled in the snow. His SOUL instinctively cowered back behind his chest cavity, and he defensively summoned a barrage of pointed bones above his form, poised to strike and directed at the sound, but then cursed as a sharp pang in his weakened SOUL made the constructs dissipate as quickly as they appeared.

His magic fizzled in a struggle, but he couldn’t tap into the source. With unsteady elbows, Papyrus raised his shaky body off the bulk of the snow and then keeled over in fatigue. He wheezed. He was going to die, he was sure of it. His magical reserves were nearly depleted, he couldn’t find any strength to conjure up a single attack.

The voice, timid and unsure, rounded closer to him, “P-…Papyrus?”

“GRUH...,” Papyrus crumbled back down on his hands and knees, fear adding to his distress, “WHAT BUSINESS DO YOU HAVE HERE?”

“WHAT DO YOU WANT?” Papyrus’s raspy voice demanded. His eye sockets were half open, the agony from his SOUL doubled and clouded his vision, “WHO ARE YOU? SPEAK!”

“Papyrus, it’s me, your friend!”

Papyrus’s eye sockets flunked open and enlarged, and he met a pair of empty, beryl orbs staring right at him. It was indeed his friend. Petals shivering in the cold and smile twitching uncomfortably at the corners. _Flowery_ was its name, wasn’t it? The Flower had the uncanny ability to pop up when least unexpected, literally. Papyrus found it annoying the first few times, nearly startling him right out his non-existent skin, but later, Papyrus developed an appreciation for the plant monster’s genuine interest in him and whatever plans or puzzles he had equipped for the day.

However, today was not a day he was flattered by the mysterious monster’s sudden appearance. Blushing embarrassed, Papyrus grumbled in agitation and wobbled to his feet, brushing off patches of snow which had accumulated on him. The sudden movement made his head rush and suddenly the horizon teetered sideways, and the ground shifted under him. He lost his footing, and collapsed back on his rear end, his coccyx taking the brunt of the fall. He grimaced, but ultimately decided to stay where he sat, still feeling faint.

“IT’S ONLY YOU.” Papyrus kneaded at the side of his skull and winced through his headache, “HOW DID YOU FIND MY SPECIAL, SECRET SPOT? I DON’T REMEMBER EVER SHOWING YOU WHERE IT WAS?” Accusingly, Papyrus shot a glare at the small monster quivering at his feet, “…UNLESS YOU WERE FOLLOWING ME?”

“I’m always watching, silly,” Flowey’s voice squeaked cautiously, devoid of its usual chipper tune. “But I just wanted to see…”

Flowey’s sentence broke with a disbelieving gasp. He removed his attention away from Papyrus’s face and brought it down to the glove that was darkened with magical residue, “Papyrus, you’re hurt!”

Like a child caught with a hand in the cookie jar, Papyrus quickly cupped a hand at his chest to clutch at the material of his armor. There was a warm wetness on the fabric where his SOUL resided on the other side, and the substance stuck to his glove with a string of excess magic when he pulled his hand away. Papyrus recoiled with a sharp inhale, dread—colder than snow—chilled down his bones.

“Your magic, it’s coming out of your SOUL! Who?” Flowey whirled his head around every which way, seeking out the culprit, but his searching ceased when he finally understood.

“What? Did you…,” Appalled, Flowey mouthed in stunned comprehension and slow deliverance, “Did you do that to... _yourself_?”

With his SOUL racing, pounding and his thoughts spinning, spiraling, he lied through his teeth, feeling sickeningly shameful at the provocation, “N-NO I WAS JUST—”

“—Why would you do that? Papyrus!”

This was something entirely new. Of the endless loops, playbacks, and constructed trials-and-errors, never once had he witnessed an alternate timeline quite like this one. When the scripting of Papyrus’s dialogue turned flat and the characters were starting to feel more like puppets and nothing but lines of codes, Flowey—in his lonely monotony—was certain he had exhausted all the roads of possibilities he could take. Even in this run, with him being contrite and merciful and friendly, nothing could have prepared him for this.

Flowey shook his head and curiously stretched a vine towards Papyrus’s front in consolation, “You have to let me help you.”

Without thinking, Papyrus defensively slapped the tendril away, “NO, NO THIS IS NOTHING, I ASSURE YOU! IT WAS JUST…IT IS NOTHING YOU NEED TO CONCERN YOURSELF WITH! I ONLY FELT SICK FOR A MOMENT AND I NEEDED TO CATCH MY BREATH!”

“Papyrus, would you just listen to me.”

Papyrus shot up and he crossed his arms to his chest in aloofness, but he wasn’t misleading anyone; Flowey could see right through Papyrus’s facade, and the rattling of his bones was evidence enough of his anxiety.

Flowey frowned. The glimmer in the flower’s empty eyes disturbed Papyrus because it was difficult to decipher the emotion behind them.

Trepidation seizing at him, Papyrus declared with a gruff containing more gusto than necessary to hide his terror, “NO! EVERYTHING IS FINE. NOW IF YOU WOULD EXCUSE ME, I DON’T HAVE TIME TO PLAY WITH YOU TODAY. I HAVE VERY URGENT BUSINESS TO ATTEND TO!”

“What kind of business, friend?” Flowey inquired with an adorable head tilt and a raised brow.

Papyrus looked in the opposite direction, not daring to peek down, avoiding eye contact, “JUST BUSINESS!” Papyrus’s chest elevated, holding back a frustrated growl, “WHY DO YOU ASK SO MANY QUESTIONS?”

Papyrus tried to keep his cool under the interrogation of his flower friend. He pinched at the cleft between his eye sockets, and he released the air contained inside of him with exaggerated fatigue. He hoped the flower monster would drop whatever concern it had for him. He just wanted to go home and sulk where no one would see; he was humiliated enough from being caught red-handed, but the self-conscious contemplation of how his methods had spiraled out of his control pestered him. His convulsive needs and his steady hold of his magic, nothing was making any sense in his mind, he was always so careful and precise, what had snapped inside of him?

Sparingly, Papyrus added, “IT’S BEEN A LONG DAY AFTER SPARRING WITH UNDYNE. I’M NOT IN THE MOOD.”

“You weren’t training with her today. I know you weren’t,” The flower monster winced slightly at the offended rumble Papyrus punctuated it with.

“OF COURSE I WAS!” Papyrus squinted at his tormentor with a cantankerous eye socket, “NOTHING SUSPICIOUS OR DUBIOUS HAPPENED! SO, YOU CAN PUT YOUR DOUBTS AT EASE, AND LEAVE ME ALONE.”

Regardless, the flower monster continued to testify, cautiously, “Are you going to tell me why you’re doing this to yourself?” Flowey’s eyes caught again at the hemorrhage surfacing on the front of Papyrus’s armor.

Flowey was quiet for a moment, waiting for a response, but Papyrus fidgeted where he stood while he dealt with the war within himself. He wasn’t fond of long breaks in between conversation.

“I WASN’T DOING _ANYTHING_.”

Flowey clicked his tongue; Papyrus was a terrible liar, and as he listened to Papyrus haw and hem, an image came through him, a recollection of happier times they had spent together, and even in his empty body, a resonation of pity gripped at him. That pity hardened when Papyrus grunted from the obvious self-inflicted pain.

“You idiot, it’ll only get worse,” Flowey sauntered two paces closer, and Papyrus flinched, taking took two steps back.

“NO, DON’T,” Papyrus showed off his sabers, not caring how uncaring and hateful his voice sounded.

“Hey, I’m trying to be nice!” Flowey spat, offended, “Why won’t you let me help you?”

“I DON’T NEED HELP FROM YOU!”

Papyrus trembled where he stood, SOUL thrumming. It was too intense for him to take. He was scared. Even with the tiny flower monster straining its head up to look at his face and with Papyrus’s head tilted down, Papyrus felt like the tiny one. The weak one, the fragile one. For a moment, Flowey’s eyes cleared, almost scintillating in recognition, but in the next, they clamped shut in discontent.

“You’re so stupid sometimes. What’s the point of keeping secrets from me?” Flowey glared to his side, unblinkingly. He then muttered under his breath as if he was mulling to himself, “As if you could.”

“I’M NOT KEEPING ANY SECRETS, AND I DON’T HAVE TO EXPLAIN ANYTHING TO YOU,” Papyrus’s browbones caved in, making his eye sockets look angular and wicked, “NOW MOVE OUT OF MY WAY!”

Papyrus disguised his devastation with flaring anger, stomping away with heavy footfalls to get his point across, but a snag at his boot stopped him in his tracks. Holding him back, a vine poked from the frosty earth, wrapped around the ankle of his foot, with undetermined strength which surprised him.

“Papyrus.”

The way Flowey’s voice darkened made Papyrus shiver. He whipped around with his hands clenched, scowling at the flower monster behind him. The grimace on his face hunkered down however with what he saw; Flowey’s face was shadowed, eyes hollow, and from that, Papyrus’s SOUL lurched in apprehension.

Flowey simultaneously freed Papyrus’s foot and uttered with a coldness that was unforgiving and frigid, “I saw.”

Papyrus’s jaw opened and closed, unable to formulate words and feeling like an entire avalanche crashed over him, locking him in place and suffocating him.

Slower, words hanging on with deliberate intensity, Flowey continued, “I saw, okay. I saw everything, so you can stop with the whole tough guy act, because you’re not fooling _anyone_.”

“WHAT? H-HOW?” There was an invisible pressure bearing down on Papyrus’s chest, expectant of admonishment. The guilt came flooding in before he could find the chance to quell it down; that godawful sound bellowed in his skull again, and the revolting wave of fresh EXP made him gag. He was going to lose it; Flowey’s all-too-knowing gaze seared holes through his bones, and with everything breaking down and colliding and booming, Papyrus quavered.

“I wasn’t lying, friend. I’m always watching,” Papyrus could barely hear with the ringing in his head; Flowey’s voice echoed farther and farther away, “It had a lot of EXP, right? Jumped you up to a whole LV.”

A sound broke through the haze with what he perceived was a harrow, commiserate laugh, “I couldn’t even keep up with you; you ran away so fast before I could stop you! And then after Waterfall, your tracks had washed away.”

Flowey hummed in thought, “I had never seen you so afraid before.” Not even when Flowey had him on his knees, form vanishing into dust, Papyrus never shown such debilitating fear.

Pondering, Flowey spoke, “With that,” He gestured to Papyrus’s chest, “You’ve never done that before! You’re not supposed to be…,” He quickly corrected himself, “You _shouldn’t_ do that to yourself.”

Teeth chattering, “I DIDN’T MEAN TO,” Papyrus regained some of his breath, showing life but not enough soul, “…MY MAGIC.”

Papyrus gritted his teeth and shut his eye sockets. The pain. His legs buckled slightly; the gash carved at his SOUL was still fresh and stinging. He whimpered obtrusively and opened his sockets again, staring down at the discolored fluid on his gloves, and then fisted his phalanges tight until the joints threatened to give out, “IT HAD NEVER DONE THAT BEFORE. IT WAS AS IF EVERYTHING IN ME…LEFT. AND WHAT TOOK ITS PLACE WAS SOMETHING…” He shuddered, “…EVIL.”

“That’s what EXP and intentions does to you,” Flowey remarked, matter-of-factly.

Papyrus’s conjectures targeted on his magic. It was the one thing he could rely on—the very culmination of his being—and for it to disobey him was terrifying to reflect on. The cruel, callous intentions hanging in every pocket of air, the red-eyed, malicious monsters which roamed the Underground’s dark caverns; was he _becoming_ one of them?

“I was surprised too. Your magic was whipping around so fast, I thought you were an entirely different monster! Didn’t know you had such backbone in you.”

Papyrus cringed, and Flowey saw how much his statement hurt so he relented somewhat, “But, Papyrus, it’s okay. I know how you feel.”

“You’re running away from it,” A remorseful expression changed on Flowey’s face, “I understand, the guilt, it hurts doesn’t it?”

Feeling mocked, Papyrus’s face changed from fear, to shock, to malevolence. His eye sockets niggled with tiny tears that scalded like venom. His growl razed into a bray, “HOW WOULD YOU KNOW HOW I FEEL?”

Flowey’s expression went flat, unimpressed.

“AS IF YOU’VE EVER HURT ANYONE?” Papyrus’s eye sockets flooded over with water, but not a single drop dripped; not yet, “YOU’RE JUST A TINY FLOWER!”

“I know more than you think,” Flowey countered, “I know about pain, suffering, self-hatred, emptiness. It’s all I’ve known for a long time now.”

A part of Flowey wondered why he even bothered. Papyrus never had to endure what he had in a single lifetime. However, Papyrus, amongst everyone else, had a different air, an artificial glow. A glow he grew fond of in this dark, hellish place. In spite of it, Flowey felt the urge of rashiest actions to shake Papyrus madly, to make the skeleton understand the apex of loss and to fight against it, as Papyrus always did. But now, Papyrus’s bones seemed to decay into a crusty mold, traumatized and contaminated by the world’s calamity. If anything could be helped, maybe Flowey could expand Papyrus’s mind, to recollect the shattered pieces of imaginary lands with kinder, gentler monsters which Papyrus’s mind thrived on.

“But in a world like ours, you have to learn to accept it,” Papyrus’s SOUL was too ignorant, too big, for a world like this, Flowey convinced himself as he closed his eyes in contempt. He hoped Papyrus could be persuaded, “before you can do anything about it.”

Papyrus defensively grumbled and scrubbed away his molten tears, “YOU’RE NOT MAKING ME FEEL ANY BETTER.” His SOUL punched behind his sternum, the pressure rising. He felt hot and cold and he wanted to hurl.

“I’m not trying to make you feel better, I’m trying to get you to open your eyes.”

“STOP WASTING MY TIME!” Papyrus fumed, arms linking across a buffed out chest to make himself look superior, closing off all connection in finality, “I’VE HAD ENOUGH TALKING WITH YOU. I’M GOING HOME.”

With that, Papyrus angrily stomped away, his arms indignantly crossed, towards the entrance of Snowdin, ignoring everything around him.

Flowey didn’t stop him.

So that was it.

Flowey sighed. Papyrus couldn’t be helped.

But even from his distance, Papyrus could make out Flowey’s haunting final words, “I can’t believe you’re so stupid.”

 

* * *

 

The entrance to Snowdin smelt of burning cinnamon.

Papyrus passed by the decrepit library and the foulness of Grillby’s to the dying, flickering fairy lights of his home. Shivering from head-to-toe, he lodged open the locked door, quietly as he could, and slipped behind to close it just as softly.

The house was relatively dim; only one lamp was lit, the television chattered with an already-aired Mettaton special, and the scent of spaghetti streamed pleasantly from the kitchen. Everything else was steady, secure. And for that, Papyrus was grateful; he needed that more than anything after the overturned disaster he experienced, his nerves were still on high alert and sensitive.

Seeking out the comfort of his bed, he made his way towards the staircase, but an unexpected noise from the discolored couch jarred him out of place and stopped him midstep. Stretched across the cushions was Sans on his back, feet dangling carefree from the arm of the sofa and a tub of half eaten spaghetti in one arm, snoring softly.

Papyrus focused his partial attention to the television remote slipping out from Sans’s hand. He was quick to snatch it and turned down the volume of the special to a low, ambient buzz. Sans stirred, grumbled, and relaxed again, chest rising and falling with slow, content breaths. Papyrus wedged the tub of spaghetti from Sans’s other arm to dump the remains and leave the container in the sink to be washed later. He had barely any energy left to spare; the emotional devastation had rigged him of all his willpower, his SOUL was heavy and his head was light—a bipolar mix—but he suppressed a groan at the pain and the sick lurch in his non-existent gut.

The light from the television casted a yellow and pinkish glow over the ivory of Sans’s bones. He scanned one more time at Sans’s calm face, noting how disarmed it was, leveled down from its usual arrogant cleft. Sans looked—and Papyrus’s eye sockets gentled at the realization of this—safe.

But it must’ve been a long day. Even with Sans’s prevalent laziness, Papyrus could notice just how exhausted his brother was; it showed in just the act of him being at home and not at Grillby’s for his nightly social routine, and consuming Papyrus’s pasta with no probing or pestering required.

A part of Papyrus was intensely relieved Sans was home; his brother was a solid wall to vent out his frustrations and emotional baggage to, but at the same time, that was exactly what he was fearful of.

Papyrus’s joints locked in stiff uncertainty; his thoughts danced in agonzing arcs between the competing urges of flight and for Sans’s warmth, a quiet iching in his empty phalanges to reach out and wrap them around Sans’s frame for the reassuring consolation he needed.

Sans was the Judge of the Underground—Papyrus knew—and afterall, the Judge could delve and scrutinize and count every mark of sin littered in a SOUL. And suddenly, Papyrus’s own SOUL hammered, his magic fizzled with energy, boiling over for release and desperate for output. All that pent-up, contaminated magic longed to be unleashed, to catch the brunt of the Judge’s rage and spite and to fight against the power.

_Because he did wrong, and deserved whatever punishment he had coming to him._

He bolted up the stairs in his cowardice, gasping, and he locked his bedroom door shut, weight pushed against the wood. Something was going terribly wrong inside of him, beyond what he could handle; he was twitchy and wound tight, the lines of his sanity threatened to snap.

But now alone in his room, he could salvage some of the threads. He grabbed one of his comfier shirts before tip-toeing to the bathroom.

He stared at himself in the mirror, at hollow eyes and pale bones. Chips and scars. He directed his eyes sockets down, aware that he was a disheveled mess even if it was difficult to admit.

He fell into a state of winding down and self-care; he stripped out of his battle armor top—recoiling as the wet patch of the fabric slid off his bones with a squelch—and changed into his loose shirt. He splashed some water on his face and brushed his teeth in slow deliberate movements, settling into the rhythm of his work.

When he deemed himself presentable, he eased out of the bathroom to trek for food in the kitchen. His magical reserves were exhausting down to dangerously low levels. He needed a pick-me-up to survive the woes of the night.

Sans was still sleeping soundly when he descended downstairs and he retreated to the kitchen to warm up his own leftovers in the microwave without bothering to look at the contents inside. The sound of popping and of sizzling erupting from the heat instilled him even further into ease. He didn’t need to think about anything—definitely not the roiling EXP and new LV or the malefaction of his inept control—nothing but the smell of spice in the air and the wonder of what Mettaton-centric show will broadcast next.

Meal warm and fork equipped, he meandered to the couch and carefully— _very carefully_ —relaxed into the backrest, sitting as far away as the sofa would allow him from Sans’s sleeping form. He’ll eventually wake up and coax Sans to properly go to bed, his brother’s prostrate position hardly looked comfortable and he was starting to drool on the furniture, but Papyrus knew Sans would notice something about him was off. Papyrus didn’t have it in him for anymore accusations, his SOUL wouldn’t be able to take it.

Still snoring away, Sans slept. Ache and tiredness flared in Papyrus’s bones. He wasn’t quite sure what was on his plate, but mechanically he ate—the hunger overshadowed everything else—and before he knew it, his plate was empty. He checked over himself briefly. About twenty points was restored to his HP; it was enough but not entirely sufficient. With that, he could bare it for the night, and he stood to return his utensils back to the kitchen.

The shift of the seat caused Sans to jostle awake, his eye sockets blinking warily around him.

Papyrus froze, his marrow chilled cold.

Sans gave out a low yawn and stretched out his vertebrates, each one cricking and snapping into place. Sans’s brow bone furrowed, confused, and Papyrus took that opportunity to slink away as quietly as he could, but it was awful difficult to do when his bones were clattering like rocks in a tin can.

Sans sluggishly turned his head over in the direction of the sound, a few more seconds passed before the lights in his eye sockets surfaced in recollection. Voice gravelly from the dregs of sleep, Sans’s mouth turned with a dopey grin, “hey, bro.”

“H-HEY,” was all Papyrus could utter, his back was turned away and the plate nearly slipped from his hands. He couldn’t let Sans find out what he did, fearing disappointment and retribution. Sans could see it, right? His brother was strikingly obversent; could Sans detect the new EXP? The spike in LV? Papyrus wasn’t ready to test that theory. He inched closer to the staircase.

“hmm? wha’ time is it?”

Papyrus’s neck bowed reflexively. He could scarcely breathe, but he pushed through, his words flying out of him, “IT’S LATE ENOUGH, GRILLBY’S IS CLOSED.”

“shit,” Sans scooted forward to rearrange himself on the couch until he was in a proper sitting position. Sans gave his rump a scratch and grumbled with irritation, “could really go for a burg right now. damn mtt show must’ve put me to sleep.”

“YES, THAT IS A REAL SHAME,” Papyrus laid down the sarcasm thick and vehemently, hoping Sans would take the bait. All he had to do was throw a few insults here, a few nagging complaints there, and Sans would get annoyed enough to stop talking to him. He could put on a show, be spiteful and bitter, just enough so their conversation would cut short with mutual frustration with each other. He glanced at the security of his bedroom again, door open and inviting and safe.

“ I DON’T KNOW WHY YOU BOTHER WITH THAT GREASEHOLE ANYWAY. IT’S A PIGSTY. SO DISGUSTING.” He tiptoed closer, hovering over the first step. Almost home free.

Sans only huffed, rolling his eye lights. It was not the reaction Papyrus was expecting, so he amped up the pressure.

“IT SUITS YOU THOUGH, AN ABYSS OF BAD DECISIONS AND POOR TASTE,” Papyrus continued to egg on, but the unease settled heavy on his SOUL, “YOU PRACTICALLY BELONG THERE. LET ME GUESS, YOU’VE BEEN THERE LIKE THREE TIMES ALREADY TODAY, RIGHT? INSTEAD OF DOING YOUR JOB?”

“don’t have to be such an ass,” Sans countered. There was an edge of amusement in his words, treating Papyrus’s mockery as if it was a chew toy, “get of my case, wouldya? been working hard all day.”

“I’LL BELIEVE IT WHEN I SEE IT.”

Sans shrugged loosely, “believe what you want to believe, bro.”

Breathing in too-quick, shallow gasps, Papyrus glared over his shoulder, letting the heat of his scowl singe holes through the bones of his brother’s own gaze, signalling the finality of their conversation. _Can Sans just drop it, already?_

“heh, can’t say the same ‘bout you though,” Sans hummed inquisitively, undeterred by Papyrus’s sudden hostility, “haven’t heard from you all day. didn’t see you on patrol. no puzzles recalibrated, no traps reworked? whatcha been doing?”

“IMPORTANT STUFF, SENTRY STUFF!” Papyrus replied, a little too fast.

“yeah?” His brother looked off to the side, seemingly disinterested, but at the same time Papyrus wasn’t so sure; Sans was good at misdirection, “took you pretty long to get home too.”

Papyrus shuffled awkwardly on his feet and managed to ascend up a couple of steps. Sans eyelights followed the movement, and then frowned. Papyrus spoke with enough malice to avoid suspicion, “YOU WAITED FOR ME?

“yeah but s’not a big deal. i was just wonderin’ is all.”

“WHAT’S IT TO YOU? YOU’RE NOT MY KEEPER! I DON’T HAVE TO ANSWER TO YOU!”

“woah, why are you getting so defensive?” Sans raised a brow bone in speculation. That alone had Papyrus quaking over in his shoes and his SOUL dropped with the cresting panic of his misdeeds.

“I’M NOT,” Papyrus began to feel faint, the temperature of the room broiled, “I’VE BEEN VERY BUSY!” He slipped on the edge of the next step, faltering over and he could barely catch himself.

“i’m sure you have…,” Sans scratched absently at his mandible. Papyrus was feeling out of place with his brother, like a dumb dummy, and Sans’s sudden, uncharacteristic taciturnity was entirely off-putting, “but it’s not like you to just disappear.”

“I WAS IN WATERFALL,” Papyrus squinted, his SOUL constricting too tight.

“yeah, i noticed that. you’re trackin’ mud everywhere,” Sans waved dismissively at the Papyrus’s sodden shoes; there were small bits of trampled echo flower petals scattered on the floor and stuck to the soles of his boots, “didn’t even bother to kick them off at the door? but you bitch at me when i don’t?”

“I’LL CLEAN IT UP, LATER,” Papyrus stilted words sounded worse. Given his body’s tortured response, the abject threat of crumbling down in shame was building and building.

“c’mon, throw me a bone here, i don’t feel like playing the guessing game. did someone jump ya?”

Papyrus kept his jaw locked, afraid that once unhinged he would spout out anything and everything.

Air heavier than bricks, Sans’s voice spoke up again, softer this time, “and honestly, you look like hell, bro. you’re rattlin’ and looking pale.”

Papyrus shivered. Unnerved, there was an implication that nagged at him, fright dredging in his bones. For a moment, Papyrus felt the unwavering weight of his sins stone above him, threatening to make his knees buckle under Sans’s scrutiny. Because he felt with the impending knowledge that somehow, Sans knew.

Sans _knew_.

Papyrus clutched at the fabric of his shirt. His SOUL clamoured awfully, pulsing erratically and the pain piqued with a sudden, unforgiving onslaught. His head floated, the plate in his hand slipped from his phalanges and tumbled down the steps.

When Papyrus swayed to and fro, almost fainting, Sans hopped off the couch in an instant to Papyrus’s side, his eye lights blown from the sockets with worrying concern, “woah, woah hey, take it easy.”

Papyrus sagged his weight on Sans’s side, fighting off the spinning in his head and the vile sensation bristling in his SOUL. His phalanges scraped on the wall and his other arm leveled around Sans’s shoulder while they descended from the steps. Sans’s grip on Papyrus was sturdy and he kicked away the plate on the last step to avoid tripping. Limping over to the couch, Sans motioned for Papyrus to sit, and Sans took to reside close. His hold on Papyrus’s arm did not let up, it tightened.

“what the actual hell?” Sans was persistent, taking Papyrus’s silence as an opportunity to voice his inquiries, “what happened? are you okay? what is…?”

Then there was an instant brink of a chill which rippled down the membrane of Papyrus SOUL. He was being _checked_.

“NO, NO!” Papyrus jerked away and collectively clasped his hands over his shirt above his SOUL in a mock, protective barrier to hide his stats. He begged, almost falling to his knees, “NO SANS, DON’T LOOK!”

_Please don’t. Please._

Papyrus scooted back, feeling violated and hurt. It was all on the table now, naked and bare for his brother to condemn. Papyrus’s eye sockets were sheen with tears like glass. Just as quickly, Sans’s scanning over his SOUL stopped and his eye sockets widened. Sans waited a moment more, looking Papyrus up and down, and with that he felt like a convict. Or one of those red-eyed creatures. Evil.

So, he pleaded for mercy, spluttering out his transgressions as if put on trial, “I’M SORRY, I’M SO SORRY, IT WAS AN ACCIDENT AND I DON’T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED! I LOST CONTROL. I’M SORRY!”

“calm down,” Sans replied, unthreatening, but the lights in his eye sockets were frantic, “calm down and just breathe, papyrus.”

Papyrus rasped out, sweat beading on his bones, “I-I DIDN’T MEAN FOR IT TO HAPPEN! IT WAS AN ACCIDENT!” It was all coming out; his SOUL panged with such unsurmountable guilt and venom that when his words left him he was the slightest bit relieved he didn’t have to hold it in anymore, “AND NOW YOU KNOW! YOU’RE THE _JUDGE_. AND YOU THINK...YOU THINK I’M…”

_One of them._

Papyrus couldn’t bare to say it out loud.

“s’okay, it’s only lv 3. you messed up a small amount,” Sans assuaged delicately, not wanting to indict another meltdown at Papyrus’s expense. He rubbed his hand down Papyrus’s scapulae and Papyrus flinched anxiously at the brush of contact, “i’m not gonna do anything to you.”

Papyrus shook his head adamantly, “YOU SAID THAT WHEN IT WAS ONLY LV 2, BUT NOW IT’S 3 AND IT’S GETTING WORSE AND WORSE.” He hung his head in his hands. Ashamed and frustrated and disgusted with himself, Papyrus let out a heavy, wet exhale, “I DON’T KNOW HOW TO STOP IT! I COULDN’T CONTROL IT! I’M GETTING WORSE! I. DON’T. WANT. TO BE LIKE THIS! BUT I CAN’T STOP IT!”

“papyrus,” Sans started, speaking quietly but firmly, “it really isn’t as bad as you’re making it out to be.” Sans leaned onto him in a comforting gesture, offering up warmth which Papyrus was highly receptive to. Papyrus faltered with a soft sound, realizing his need for a mitigating touch, and relaxed into the embrace. He was a bit more at ease; he focused his attention on the rise and fall of Sans’s chest, synchronizing their hushed breaths until the buzzing ebbed away.

“take it from me, bro,” Sans’s lids flattened lower above the white eye lights that were currently running back and forth between Papyrus’s empty ones, “i’ve seen some real bloodthirsty monsters, the worst kind. some so deep in lv and exp they couldn’t even think or see straight without attackin’ somebody.”

Sans moved his head some, still tentative, “i’ve seen it too many times to count,” and then mumbled a vibrative, sullen whisper, “but i don’t see that in you.”

Papyrus turned his head indifferently, brow bone convulsing, “THAT STILL DOESN’T CHANGE WHAT I DID. I DID SOMETHING HORRIBLE, SANS. YOU SHOULD BE UPSET WITH ME. THAT’S WHAT KING ASGORE HIRED YOU FOR, IT’S YOUR JOB!”

Papyrus’s magic spiked, expectant of an attack or a swift dose of poisonous justice to excoriate his body and burn his SOUL. But no attacks came.

Instead, Sans maneuvered to steel himself closer to Papyrus’s side, and let his skull clack against Papyrus’s mandible. A familiar, skeletal display of affection.

“yeah, but ain’t no one down here a saint.”

The images of the fight flashed through Papyrus’s mind, and he dug his phalanges into the cushions of the couch, “THERE WASN’T ANYTHING I COULD DO.”

“what d’you mean? “

Papyrus mumbled as his eye sockets became portals to the misery and soul ache that had been turning him inside out, “WHEN...MY ATTACK CUT TOO DEEP, I LOST CONTROL. WHICH IS ABSURD BECAUSE I ALWAYS HAVE IMMACULATE CONTROL OVER MY MAGIC!”

“and the their dust?” Sans pressed, mannerly, “what did you do with it?”

Papyrus frowned down at the curls of the carpet. He was afraid to keep this conversation where it was going, and his voice quivered, “I TRIED TO DO SOMETHING, BUT THE PONDS, THEY WASHED THEM AWAY.”

The look on Sans’s face could’ve passed for boredom, but in actuality, he was lingering on every word Papyrus was saying. Calm and collected and cool, Sans replied heartfully, “that’s a shame. can’t do anything about that.”

There was a disjointed pang in Papyrus’s jaw from gritting his teeth so hard, “I PUT UP A RESPECTABLE FIGHT; YOU SHOULD HAVE SEEN IT, SANS! I WAS REMARKABLY IMPRESSIVE, OF COURSE! EVERYTHING WAS GOING FINE, I WAS THINKING I COULD WALK AWAY UNSCATHED, JUST TO SCARE THEM OFF…”

“BUT THEN SOMETHING CHANGED. I DON’T QUITE KNOW WHAT,” Papyrus spoke, a little too quiet for his usual loud personality. He turned his head to Sans’s now, eye sockets big and emotional, “A LOT OF THINGS HAVE CHANGED.

Sans tiredly ran his hand down his face and held his forehead some before rubbing the back of his neck, “mmm, they have. i’m not gonna lie.”

Sans sighed, his own guilt seizing him. This was all wearing him down, but he knew the cause of Papyrus’s emotional clinginess was the result of his coddling. He felt it in himself to preserve what little innocence Papyrus had left. Even if there only were a few fibers left, he would pick up the pieces.

“you’re not that little chip-toothed brat who wanted to tag along with me everywhere,” Sans mumbled fondly, a small, sad smile on his face from remembrance, “you’re different now. you grew up.”

Papyrus body shook somewhat. He reared his head back, breath tight, “SANS, YOU DON’T...THINK OF ME ANY DIFFERENTLY?” He choked on the last part of his sentence, afraid of the answer. He didn’t want to look at Sans’s face. It would hurt too much. He would be alone if it was true.

Sans punctuated his words with caution and earnest and truth, “i don’t pap, i promise. heh, you’ll always be the greatest to me, no matter what you do.

Papyrus raised his voice over Sans’s, “YEAH GREAT AND, TCH, TERRIBLE,” he held his face in his his hands and winced at his voice, “MMPH…, I’M PATHETIC, AREN’T I?”

“nah, you’re not pathetic,” the understanding tone in Sans’s voice embittered into dispraise, “you’re idealistic. always wantin’ to be the good guy.”

From that, Sans admired Papyrus. Or perhaps he was a little jealous.

“c’mon bro. you’re made outta tough stuff. i’m not trying to invalidate your feelings or whatever, but you’re putting this too hard on yourself.”

Papyrus rebuked, better at speaking once his own embarrassment over how feeble he sounded had mushroomed into agitation, “UNDYNE WOULDN’T STAND FOR THIS. SHE’S HARDLY SO WEAK.”

“heh, that’s a good joke,” Sans murmured after an unsettled blink, smile stiff as a board.

Papyrus’s gaze diluted in bewilderment and disbelief, not quite understanding whatever was amusing in their conversation, “I WAS NOT MAKING A JOKE.”

For a second, Papyrus wondered if the effects of the trauma and soul ache had him misinterpreting signals, but no. Sans’s posture did not change, Sans’s mouth did not move the doofy way it did whenever his brother cracked a pun, and Sans’s knowing stare did not falter; Sans was undoubtedly serious, “could’ve fooled me. have you _ever_ bothered to check her lv, dude?”

“STOP BEING RIDICULOUS! I DON’T HAVE TO!”

Why would he ever, in fact? Wouldn’t that be rude? It was apparent by just standing next to Undyne’s presence that she was strong. Fortitudinous magic radiated and rolled off of every scale on her body; was he wrong for not doubting her power?

Sans continued without reprieve and consideration, “she’s got lv out the wazoo, leagues higher than you do.”

Upon hearing that, Papyrus’s eye sockets opened wider at the discovery, but his frown didn’t dissipate, “IS THAT _YOUR_ ATTEMPT OF A JOKE? IT’S NOT A VERY GOOD ONE.”

It had to be. Papyrus was still fighting to understand; having been stripped away from his virtues, it was difficult to comprehend tenacious Undyne suffering the same fate as he had, drowning in the same self-contempt as he was. He couldn’t fathom it!

“i don’t make jokes,” Sans shrugged plainly, but with a slight hint of sarcasm and and humor which broke the tension slightly. 

Papyrus thinned his eye sockets, baring his fangs at the absurdity of it all, “THEN YOU’RE A TERRIBLE LIAR, SANS.”

“wow, really? not once have you considered how she got so strong? why nearly everyone she works with is scared half to death speaking to her?”

Sans ignored the glower in Papyrus’s eyes sockets, and spoke to the expression of calculation on his brother’s face instead, “she’s not as cool as you think she is. i can see right through her. she wants to play ‘the hero’ too, but even she has made mistakes, made sacrifices. it’s not all black and white. even some semi-good people can do bad things. things they aren’t proud of.”

Sans’s eye sockets twinkled in scintillation and slewed his gaze away, eventually he spoke softly, “papyrus, when was the last time you checked me?”

He wanted Papyrus to understand.

The air was heavier than it should have been, and Papyrus had no idea what to say...what to do. He shot Sans a look, shock yielding to skepticism, but gave nothing but a grunt of a reply, “SANS I’M—I DON’T HAVE TO DO THAT EITHER.”

There was an edge of demand embedded in Sans’s tone, making Papyrus flinch. Sans was a lot of things—lazy, unmotivated, and indolent—but never once would Papyrus ever doubt the warmness and understanding of Sans’s character. Papyrus would bet on every bone on his body of anything different. Papyrus chose to ignore the implication that his brother was but another one of those vicious monsters. He had it clear and stubborn in his mind. Sans was not them.

Sans eyed Papyrus again, his disdain clear, but he kept it in his words. Mostly.

“yeah, well, truthfully, it doesn’t really matter. none of it does. all that’s important is you stayin’ honest with yourself. we’re all fucked up down here. just gotta live with it and make the best with what we got.”

“IF NONE OF IT MATTERS,” Papyrus contemplated somberly, “THEN WHY DID YOU BOTHER TELLING ME ALL THIS?”

“‘cause i care about _you_.”

They both took a time-out to think to themselves—silent but for their mutual, stalled breathing—and they huddled closer together on the couch with lethargy sinking in their SOULs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed the tags before reading.

The next, few days were harder ones.

Undyne was away, commissioned for an important, royal retreat, considering her absence in Waterfall. She called him the morning after Papyrus’s fumble through the marsh for a quick report. Her ponderings and chronicles of her time spent in the ill-liked hearth of Hotland and the boisterous divisions of the Capitol were amusing to listen to. It was the better part of Papyrus’s day, and he missed her companionship dearly. In all regards, and thankfully, the churn of the tormenting thoughts in his head never made it through the receiver of their conversations.

Still, he was ashamed and remorseful.

His flowery friend didn’t sprout to visit him, and the progression of his duties passed in a unsettling rush of cold, metal spikes and trap wires.

He continued to hover in Sans’s company from his loneliness. After hours of isolation, keeping strictly in the frigid den of the forest, he had another breakdown in the realization for his need of consolation. What he did was retreat to their home, calling for his brother. Sans was the guardian of his solitary nights, and ceding control to his brother was an exhale, the long-held breath finally found some release.

The assuagement of Sans’s concern was initially pleasant; he had not to fear his retributions discovered by the Judge, but it quickly began to nag and gnaw on his conscience. It made him more weary. Sans often contrived banal answers to Papyrus’s even more banal questions, and none of them undercut the answers to those questions that would get to the root of what Papyrus was suffering inside.

To the best of his ability though, Papyrus sported the naivete and optimism Sans came to expect from him, but soon, Sans’s comfort and offerings weren’t enough and they had lost their luster. It hurt too much inside. So, Papyrus turned to the razor knife.

At night, he would go home to the prison of his bedroom, poking notches in his SOUL until the magic seeped out, or forming indentations and cuts into the bone of his ulna. Dust and marrow sprinkled on the bed.

But after the pain and marrow dried, there was satisfaction. Pleasure. His SOUL would flutter expectantly for the soft, self-caring touches after all the agony, jostling his nerves until only his orgasm was the precipice of solace from his deprecating inflictions.

He made sure to wash his sheets periodically and clean his gloves from the magic stains which would leak out. The other visible signs of the torture his encounter put him through. The torture he put himself through.

Sans was none the wiser. His brother couldn’t know he was resorting to his old, harmful methods of coping again, so he hid himself away.

However, his luck did run out.

One night, he could barely speak through the pain and guilt pounding in his SOUL. He was wobbling on his feet in a state of paralysis that rattled and delayed his nerves, and he toppled over in their kitchen during dinner preparations, knocking over bowls and utensils.

His phalanges convulsed, body doubled over, and he curled them to his chest. He hallucinated the sound of ringing and he closed his eye sockets from the wooziness. He managed to unfurl his phalanges from his armor, pulling them away only to gasp inwardly when splotches of dark magic painted his hand, spreading across the material.

The crack. It had opened up again.

He began to hyperventilate; the scene of death replayed in his mind and he was suddenly there, back in Waterfall when his eye sockets were too raw to see, when his SOUL hammered achingly behind his sternum, when the wind howled through him, when he clawed at his head to snuff out the excruciation and torment of his sinful actions.

And suddenly, Sans was there kneeling on the floor with him. Fisting at his shirt, shaking him, alarmed and scared, and pulling him close until he was embedded in the heat of Sans’s coat and embrace. Papyrus tried to rift his mouth wide enough to speak and soothe Sans with a lie that he’ll be fine, however, he couldn’t keep his own rationality stable to sanitize himself. All he rasped out were dehydrated breaths, and with the chaos spiraling in his mind, he couldn’t focus.

Was he Falling Down? Papyrus fought against his doubts, but everything around him was blurring into jittery pixels. He rolled his head up to Sans, struggling through his panic attack, and Sans was mouthing something but it all spoke foreign and incomprehensible to him. The rest of him fell numb, his head swimming. For a few minutes, they sat gripping each other, and Sans clinged to him tighter, eye sockets empty with an expression that was hard and angry and sad and pitying. Sans’s phalanges—dirty with dark magic—dug into Papyrus’s armor, right at the bleeding spot, and he cradled Papyrus closer.

When some sanity returned to him, Papyrus sat up, limbs wobbling, and he gripped Sans’s shoulders to steady himself.

Slowly and deliberately, they managed to both stand and Sans lead them to the couch, the mess splattered on the floor went unattended for now. Papyrus’s attention was drawn to Sans’s somber face and then to his brother’s hands shaking and clenched on his front.

He forced a smile for reassurance, but the ends of his mouth jittered, betraying him, “SANS, IT’S OKAY. THIS IS NOTHING THAT I CAN’T HANDLE! I ONLY FELT SICK FOR A MOMENT! THE WORST OF IT HAS ALREADY PASSED!”

Sans frowned, holding back a growl. Papyrus looked away chagrined, only to be startled by the sound of Sans’s heavy, hollow voice, dripping with disapproval.

“you’re doin’ this to yourself again,” It wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact.

Guilt weighed over him that the line of inquiry—paired with embarrassment over the truthful accusation—could not possibly lead to anything good. Papyrus froze, mouth dropping open, and his bones broke out in a chilling sweat. Soundlessly, he nodded.

Sans went completely still and Papyrus seized too, both of them staring. Papyrus felt bile welling up in his SOUL and a sense of shame that made his chest feel fit to collapse.

Fists scrunched up too tight on his armor and speaking in a disturbed tone, Sans murmured, “...why?”

Papyrus rattled and winced, his numbness rising in a crescendo until there was nothing but tightness and fear. He didn’t respond, couldn’t respond, not with Sans’s face of anguish over his depravity.

“for fuck’s sake, papyrus. we talked about this, and you promised you wouldn’t do this to yourself anymore. what if i wasn’t at home?”

There were too many emotions in Papyrus’s eye sockets, too much overwhelming him at once, and he spluttered out in defense, “I KNOW. I KNOW WE’VE TALKED ABOUT IT, YOU DON’T NEED TO REMIND ME! I HAVE AN EXCEPTIONAL MEMORY! BUT I CAN’T STAND IT ANYMORE!”

Quieter, and not-Papyrus-like, he added, “I KNOW YOU SAID IT WOULD GET BETTER, BUT IT ISN’T.”

Seeming to sense his distress, Sans urged, “i want to see it. i want to see your soul.”

Red flags shot up, and Papyrus rejected “NO, SANS—,”

“—show it to me,” Sans interrupted, and Papyrus shivered slightly at that, reminiscent of how serious and authoritative Sans could be when he wanted to.

Perturbed, Papyrus relinquished his will and summoned his SOUL, averting his gaze elsewhere or anywhere.

Sans paused just before he touched it, his mouth gone dry from the sight. The trembling, white SOUL was gnarled; the crack pulsed and was stretched horridly open, powdered with small speckles of dust along its blue hem. Sans made no sound, not too sure what to do, afraid that even the tiniest touch would threaten it to shatter. Sans swallowed thickly, gathering up his regrets, because he felt it within himself that this was his fault and he was nearly powerless to mitigate Papyrus’s suffering.

But right now, he needed to be strong for Papyrus, and actually do _something_. He suddenly noticed Papyrus’s hands furling into his coat, unable to look. Sans let Papyrus’s SOUL fall in his hands, and when he tentatively stroked the curving top, Papyrus lurched and drew back with a hiss.

Sans intoned, “i’m not as good at healing as you, boss. this’ll sting a bit. you gotta stay still and let me do it.”

Assured somewhat, Papyrus nodded again, still fuming from the humiliation. With a look of intent concentration, Sans tightened his grip on Papyrus’s SOUL—hands still bloodied—and Papyrus cursed in his head at the sensitivity. Sans gave an apologetic look, and coaxed his magic to take effect. It steamed over in a ripple and then flooded like a river over the expanse of Papyrus’s SOUL; it was warm and heavy and tentriled out in a gentle pressure, softness floated down Papyrus’s spine. He could feel the stitches of Sans’s magic knitting and pulling together the gaps sliced through his SOUL, the threads were delicate and soothing in their touches. An appreciative hum fell freely out of Papyrus mouth, and Sans slowed down his ministrations for a small second to check over Papyrus stats.

Papyrus’s insides dropped a bit, his calmness slightly rocked, anticipating judgement, but found none.

“there, that should be good enough for now,” Sans spoke, insistent and hollow in the wake of Papyrus’s stunned silence, voice rising, “probably shouldn’t do that anymore though, so y’know, you don’t _fall down_.”

Sans returned his SOUL to him; it was a healthier-looking, illuminating a weak, natural glow, and the sutures from Sans’s magic were holding up well. Honestly, Papyrus remarked, they were some of Sans’s best work.

“I WASN’T...FALLING DOWN,” Papyrus grunted, his head still slightly throbbing, “BUT THANK YOU ANYWAY.”

Sans impassively met Papyrus’s gaze, seeing the remnants hurt and ache there in his brother’s eye sockets, and replied monotonously, “sure, boss.”

Papyrus looked on, unsure of what to do now with the intensity of their altercation. It would’ve been an appropriate time to bolt to his room or jump out the next window or attend to the mess in the kitchen, but instead, he uncomfortably fidgeted where he sat. With no words forthcoming from his brother, Papyrus pressed his luck to collect himself and scamper away, but Sans stopped him with a touch on the arm.

Papyrus was instantly on edge again, quick to bolster whatever self-assurance he had, “SANS, YOU DON’T HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT ME! I’M AT ALMOST PEAK CONDITION! NEARLY 60 PERCENT, I WOULD SAY, AND THAT’S A PASSING GRADE!”

In his nerves and shame, his fists clenched tightly, and he stared at anything but his brother’s face, but he could tell Sans’s eye lights were fixed and focused unflinchingly on him, “REALLY, I’M FINE.”

Was Sans shaking? Or was it himself?

There was so much silence surrounding them.

He jolted and turned his attention when Sans sighed frustratingly. The sigh carried deeper meanings of annoyance, defeat, and worry. Papyrus chanced a glance at him and tried to shake off the block which belied the gravity and uncertainty in the air.

Sans’s eye lights...they looked so _tired_.

“papyrus,” Sans paused, searching his face for something before speaking, so tenderly it made his SOUL ache, “ you gotta stop doing this.”

 

* * *

 

“I’M. NOT. TIRED! IF I SLEPT ANYMORE I’LL BECOME A LAZY BONEHEAD LIKE YOU!” Papyrus squirmed beneath his blankets, kicking them off his feet, much to Sans’s dismay.

The next night, Papyrus was resist and wary to sleep. Granted, he hadn’t much time for sleep and only sustained the bare minimum, but he was more apprehensive than ever, fearing the nightmares which would claw out and attack him in his subconscious. His mind was whirring and thinking and postulating with Sans urging him to get whatever rest he could.

Something about restoring his HP above the maximum?

Papyrus had little knowledge about that, but with all his efforts he was beginning to feel annoyed with Sans and all of his concerns and postering. He could count on both hands the amount of times Sans uncharacteristically sent him sternly to bed that night. Even after a tepid story and a few glasses warm milk, it did nothing to soothe or settle his nerves.

“c’mon boss. all you need is one night of good sleep. now settle down and stop acting like a baby,” Sans rumbled, tucking the blankets back up and underneath Papyrus’s jaw in exasperation and irk.

Papyrus huffed, emulating his frustration and giving Sans a side eye of disbelief, “THIS ISN’T GOING TO WORK!”

“we gotta try,” Sans pocketed his hands in his coat, his eye sockets lidding in lazy seriousness and mouth melting into a thoughtful frown, “now, quit talking and go to sleep.”

“FINE. WHATEVER.” Papyrus crossed his arms over his chest, but before Sans could leave the room, he hurriedly questioned, “ANOTHER BEDTIME STORY COULD HELP?”

Sans groaned, hand slipping off the doorknob, but relented, going back to perch himself at the end of Papyrus’s bed, “whaddya want me to read? another puzzle book?”

Papyrus sat up excitedly, “ACTUALLY I WAS THINKING OF SOMETHING DIFFERENT. SOMETHING THAT COULD HELP MY ‘CONDITION’.”

With that dangerous word, Sans’s interest piqued and Papyrus took that as a safe opportunity to voice what had been festering in his mind during the entirety of the day.

His words bubbled and erupted from him quickly, without even bothering to allow Sans a chance of input, “DO YOU REMEMBER THOSE STORIES YOU TOLD ME ABOUT YOUR JOB? THE GOOD ONES? ABOUT THOSE MONSTERS YOU JUDGED AND THOUGHT COULDN’T BE PERSUADED? AND AFTER EVERYTHING THEY CHANGED AND SPARED YOU? WHICH ISN’T SURPRISING TO HEAR BY THE WAY BECAUSE YOU ARE QUITE PITIFUL.”

Sans’s brow bone furrowed suspiciously, and held Papyrus’s gaze steadily, not quite understanding where the conversation was leading, “...yeah? what about it, boss?”

“WELL, I WAS THINKING. MAYBE...THAT COULD WORK ON ME TOO!”

Papyrus turned his whole body to Sans now, his eye sockets expectant, burdening, and big, “IF I LET YOU HURT ME...YES I KNOW THAT’S FUNNY—BUT! IF I SERVE JUSTICE AND SPARE YOU, THEN THE GUILT, AND ALL THIS,” Papyrus gestured to himself, “IT WILL STOP! IT’S THAT SIMPLE!”

Sans stared at his brother, doubting what he was hearing; no, Papyrus was serious, deadpan serious! Papyrus’s simplicity was too much to take, leaving him confused; what was coming out of Papyrus’s mouth was unbelievable.

“bro...that’s…”

Sans watched, speechless, astounded, pitied, so many things...

“SANS, JUST THINK OF THIS LOGICALLY! IT COULD REALLY WORK!”

Papyrus’s voice raised heroically, as if it was one of his best ideas yet, and in his mind it was. How could Sans not understand his easy solution?!

Papyrus was slightly disheartened by Sans’s lack of response or excitement, his enthusiasm hunkering down; he’ll just have to show it for the both of them.

But Sans was much more perceptive; Papyrus’s desperation was apparent over his over front of boldness, bluntness, and openness.

This had to stop, so Sans interjected with his own SOUL feeling nauseous , “wait, wait, slow down. those monsters still had lv by the end of it, that doesn’t just go away.”

“...OF COURSE, I KNOW THAT,” Papyrus looked away, twiddling his phalanges in his lap, “BUT…WE CAN STILL TRY, CAN’T WE? WILL YOU?”

“you don’t know what you’re asking.”

Papyrus frustratingly growled to accentuate his point, “SANS, I CAN TAKE THE PUNISHMENT, THE KARMA, IF IT’S FROM YOU. YOU CAN TELL ME IT’S GOING TO BE OKAY, AND WE CAN MOVE ON FROM THIS.”

He could endure it all. Because what would potentially come after was what he was seeking out from the dark. Completion. Repentance.

“i’m already telling you it’s going to be okay. and i’ve told you it was goin’ to be okay a buncha times before,” Sans murmured, breath catching.

“OBVIOUSLY, IT’S NOT ENOUGH. JUST SAYING IT IS NOT MAKING ME ANY BETTER!”

“boss—,” Sans rasped, SOUL tight.

A radiation and mix of confliction flowed between them both. There was fear and ache, but within the center of it all, Sans sensed Papyrus’s earnestness, agony, and SOUL.

“PLEASE SANS.”

Uncharacteristically soft, Papyrus pleaded.

Sans’s eye lights trembled, staring down at the curls of the carpet, and his teeth clenched while his phalanges fisted the duvet underneath them.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t the night after that. Or even the next night after that. It took some time, and the days dragged by vacantly with Sans’s sudden adversity of any type of contact or touch after their unsettling, bleak conversation. Pointedly, Papyrus assuaged and relented somewhat due to the wavering condition of his SOUL. But when he deemed himself healed well enough, his assertions flared until Sans’s stubbornness and evasiveness evaporated.

Finally, Sans had conceded.

After some menial preparation, the scene blended into the confines of Papyrus’s bedroom, with Sans frigid and Papyrus quaking on the duvet.

“...lemme see.”

Papyrus swallowed, bones rattling in anticipation. He slipped his glove off and shuddered when the material caressed coldly down his ulna, exposing the results of all his suffering. Cuts and scars. Some fading, all ghastly.

He presented his arm to Sans, placing it in his brother’s trembling phalanges. Eyes lights straight forward and looking at nothing, Sans’s stare was plaintive and piercing. He couldn’t meet his Papyrus’s gaze, he couldn’t bear it. Not for the gross act he was about to commit. To what he felt condemned to. But in spite of it all, Sans was never good at telling his brother no.

Sorrowful, Sans released a long drawl of a sigh and when he brought up Papyrus’s ulna to his teeth, Papyrus instantly hissed at the sharp contact. Sans pecked apologetically at Papyrus’s ulna—carefully, lightly—just ghosting over the bones that flushed and burned with hot magic beneath. His tongue accidentally caught and glazed over the indentations marked there. He could taste the dried-up marrow and dust that Papyrus never bothered to clean out in the notches, and he cringed internally as the spare magic sizzled on his taste buds.

An empty, sinking sensation bellowed in the pit of Sans’s SOUL. He had to retch, but he held back the bile.

Sans would have to make a new, fresh mark.

Papyrus shifted, the tension settled deep in his bones, expectant and waiting. SOUL fluttering anxiously in his ribcage, he gripped Sans’s coat sleeves to ground himself with his other arm, and his phalanges jittered on the puffy material. He screwed his eye sockets shut to block out everything else, only focusing on the thrum of his pulsing SOUL, the throbbing of his infliction, and the bolstering of Sans’s magic coalescing with his own.

Like a hug, a gesture of love and protection. He missed it, dreadfully so, after so long without it.

Sans continued with slow deliberate kisses, and when his teeth accidentally grazed over one of the wounds, threatening to pierce open the dark crack, Papyrus sighed impatiently and his legs jerked with anticipation. The stalling was unbearable. Everything in him was screaming.

_Just please get it over with because it hurts too much._

Sans was perturbed by Papyrus’s irritation, “are you sure you wanna do this? you’re givin’ me mixed signals. seems like you really don’t want to.”

“YES I DO, YOU’RE JUST TAKING FOREVER!”

Sans spoke lower then, just breaking behind a low whisper, “i think you should let it be.” He pulled back, taking his reassuring warmth with him, and Papyrus’s SOUL chilled cold like it was dipped into freezing water, “it’s not finished healing and it’s too bad to open up.”

Papyrus tried to pretend the concern in Sans’s voice wasn’t there. He tried to remain oblivious, foolhardy, and stupid, but it was hard to do when the crack on his SOUL burned and itched something awful.

Sans hesitantly poked a phalange at the wound, just barely scraping around the jagged edges, and rubbed the small remains of dust between his thumb and forefinger which brushed off there before he mumbled uncomfortably, “it could dust you. i could dust you.”

“THAT DOESN’T MATTER,” Papyrus lied, “YOU COULD MAKE A NEW ONE, COULDN’T YOU?”

Sans frowned with a pensive expression, “…i could.”

“SO, DO IT.”

He didn’t mean to sound so sharp, but the heaviness in the air made his SOUL clench nervously; it made him feel uneasy. Disgusting.

“you sure?” Sans reclined away some, uncomfortable. Papyrus instantly intercepted, voice rising, almost in a shout.

“YES, UNDOUBTEDLY.” The words ran like acid in his marrow.

Papyrus needed it so bad. To make it all go away, for only a brief moment of penitence, “I’M READY.”

The glowing headspace Papyrus was ensconced in rippled but did not crack. He watched Sans’s spine straighten, and he saw the quiet storm brewing behind Sans’s lambent eye lights, honeyed with pity and shame. They seared holes into his SOUL, throwing his adrenaline to a sharp halt. They were full and deep of regret and fear—something Papyrus loathed to see—and he grimaced in his trance.

Sans’s eyelights faded, downcast, “if it’s too much, or you want me to stop, just say the word.”

His posture relaxed at that with a curt nod, the promise of relief so close he could feel it budding in his SOUL. When his calm reverie drugged him immobile, limbs loose like noodles, Sans loomed over—until Papyrus could feel the huffs of his brother’s moist breath fan over his bones—and then proceeded to firmly hold him down with blue magic, so he couldn’t strike out unintentionally.

The whole world seemed to stop.

Silence.

And then he heard it. The sickening _crunch._

And then he felt it. White hot and agonizing.

Papyrus’s body lighted as if on fire; he choked out a cry that was everything at once, pain and pressure and gratification all mixed for him to process.

“O-OH…SHIT, S-SHIT IT HURTS, IT…HURTS, IT HURTS. OH GOD.”

His instincts confused him; he was unsure whether he should attack back like a cornered animal or lean into the bite, to endure the source of retribution he deserved. Tears sprang up in his sockets, threatening to bowl over, and the unbearable stinging rippled down to his toes as the sensitive bone gave way beneath Sans’s fangs.

The heat dissipated and bloomed simultaneously, leaving something pleasant that was equal to the soft fuzzy space he was floating in all along. The marrow trickled down like magma—down his phalanges—leaking droplets on the bed sheets, and seductively stained on the glint of Sans’s gold incisor.

But it wasn’t enough. Papyrus was shaking, hyperventilating, and threatening to keel over, but it wasn’t enough.

Softly, as much as his gravelly voice would allow, Papyrus breathed out, “MORE,” and he meant it.

Sans’s mouth soured with a sneer. He ducked and wiped away the marrow on his teeth with the back of his sleeve, noting the contrast of the speckled, white dust incrusted in the magic on the dark fabric.

It made Sans sick.

“Y-YOU CAN DO…DO—MUCH BETTER THAN THAT, S-SANS,” Papyrus challenged.

Sans’s phalanges—cold compared to the scorching indentations on his ulna—swiped at the last dribs from the bleeding gash, and he hummed in disapproval, shaking his head, “no bro, i think you had enough.”

The stark air wavered, allowing them both a moment to breathe. Sans was solemn and unspeaking, and Papyrus was panting haggardly, his bones strung straight and rigid, enduring the dredges of agony. Still, as his body trembled under the duress, Papyrus’s SOUL pounded in an effort to drug up his senses with a wave of euphoria, on its own accord, for compensation. There was a substitution of the pain. Forgiveness. Vindication. Pleasure. The resulting outpour of arousal in Papyrus’s SOUL was imminent, as the pain usually was followed up by it.

Sans appeared to be just as tormented. The eye lights in his sockets were completely blown out unsettlingly, but he sat there loosely while his magic bubbled pleasantly to heal and suture the wound.

Papyrus was quick to stop him, “WAIT.”

Sans stopped instantly, mis magic folding back until it was nothing but a faint wisp. He questioned, confused, “what’s wrong?”

There was another delicious spasm in Papyrus’s SOUL, and there was no mistaking the connotations flushing on his bones. He whimpered, summoning out his SOUL, and Sans halted with a twinge of nervousness.

Glowing and thrumming with a pulse of responsive magic, Papyrus SOUL illuminated in the room, and even after the brunt of his suffering, there was the stubborn need for fulfillment and gratification budding in the organ.

Papyrus winced and throbbed from the onslaught of sensation, but he managed to rasp, “...IT HURTS HERE TOO.”

Sans’s attention darted to the SOUL quivering in Papyrus’s hand. Gingerly, Papyrus handed it over, releasing a light breath once it filled and resonated with Sans’s soothing magic. The reaction was almost instantaneous; its overbearing heat was cooled in his brother’s grip, and his thoughts muddled felicitous from gentler intentions oozing in Sans’s influence.

Sans’s brow bone furrowed, “whaddya want me to do?” When Sans unintentionally gave his SOUL a small squeeze, Papyrus felt himself careen towards something debached, “you want me to heal it again?”

 Papyrus nodded furiously, bones flushed and eye sockets glazed, “YES...PLEASE MAKE IT FEEL BETTER.”

Strange forces were oscillating between them, and the sensations festering deep in his marrow set an exciting, heady pressure. Papyrus was sinking into all of it, too delirious with the spasms rocking through his bones and the nerves in his SOUL.

“only if it’s alright with you,” Sans said slowly, Papyrus could hear his brother’s skepticism, but relished in the touch and attention in spite of it.

Hesitantly, Sans’s magic swept over him again, while his phalanges also alternated with an occasional, caring stroke.

“OH...GOD,” Papyrus moaned out, reaching forward to fall his weight in Sans’s form. He was all nothing but whispered mumbles and sighs, and it was almost as if his orgasm was being pushed out of him from the place Sans was touching deep inside.

“shit, papyrus? did i hurt you?”

Sans abruptly stopped his movements on the sensitive organ, and Papyrus was left panting and sweating and shaking with elation that was only a whisper away from climax.

Maybe Sans felt it too, considering the way he was breathing almost just as heavy.

Papyrus nuzzled his edged cheek against Sans’s temple, inhaling the familial, safe scent of forest pine and mustard spice. His arms desperately encased around Sans’s wider frame, and his SOUL pulsed with ardor from the soft ministrations on its surface. His entire body was on edge, his SOUL painfully swollen with need, and the way Sans stimulated the organ just made everything hotter and harder.

“NO, NO KEEP…KEEP GOING P-PLEASE,” Papyrus begged.

Sans inhaled, and then exhaled slowly. A magical rift of sensuality sparked between them, and Sans fought down the responsiveness. Ashamed, he spoke with clarity, “we should stop now, bro.”

“PLEASE, PLEASE…IT’S SO CLOSE.” The only sounds were those of their labored breaths. The room stilled; a few crystal moments passed, and Papyrus added with desperation and want lingering on every syllable, “PLEASE SANS, I WANT IT TO STOP. PLEASE MAKE IT STOP.

It was Sans’s turn to shake. This was dangerous now. They never should’ve started. And Sans never should’ve been so compliant to his brother’s commands.

_Where did he go wrong?_

Sans’s voice was low. Pained. Something broke in him, settling into the haunted reality and all he could usher out was an, “okay.”

Papyrus hiccupped, “THANK YOU, THANK YOU.”

Before neither of them could register it, lost in an overwhelming affection, Papyrus leaned forward quickly and pressed their teeth together with a whimper of submission, softly. Softer than Papyrus had ever been. Sans’s eye lights vanished in their sockets and his breath hitched, a sharp gasp as if it hurt.

Because it was all so wrong, so very wrong.

Papyrus pulled away just as quickly and remained where he was, silent but for his panting. Nothing was wholly coherent in his head, and he blamed it on the fickle intentions influencing the organ residing behind his chest cavity. His SOUL beaded with desire, that part of him so hard with arousal even though the rest of his body felt too lax and malleable. His ulan was still humming with echoes of pain, but the ache in his SOUL settled in to replace it.

Sans took a couple of seconds to recover, gauging whether Papyrus would make anymore sudden, scary movements. His lazy eye watched Papyrus yearn for him, squirming and breath catching for him to get started. When he deemed it safe, Sans gently probed at Papyrus’s secluded SOUL, applying pressure on the inverted slopes. He explored its curvature and massaged the swelling, twitching exterior, and in response, Papyrus curled into the caress, vision swimming. Sans made a few passes on the underside of it, and droplets of translucent film webbed between his phalanges. It responded eagerly to his touch, palpitating with life and energy unlike its shriveled, dull state beforehand, and with that Sans was slightly relieved.

Papyrus groaned shamelessly; Sans’s contact with the tender organ was excruciating and perfect as he rubbed it delicately. Sans teased at its surface without a pattern, just lazily kneading at random dips and bends, and the unexpected motions had Papyrus reeling from excitement. He lost whatever restraint he had left. All he could do was float, and everything felt so good. The next thing he was fully aware of was the touch of Sans’s other, unattended hand stroking lovingly down the dome of his cranium, just like when Sans consoled him as a child. Papyrus was choking on his air, so Sans relented somewhat; the soft touches on his SOUL lightened, allowing him to breathe and easing him out of the storm of brilliance and sensation.

It was the closest Papyrus felt to seeing actual stars.

He fisted the puffy material of Sans’s coat as hard as he could, panting in wet drools, and his SOUL constricted with the inevitable promise of release. So unbelievably close, and hot, and glorious. Waves crashed through him, slickened his marrow, and the sensations were so tormenting, the pleasure was so impending, he reveled in the fact that Sans was reaching a secret spot inside of him, a spot that only Sans had ever found.

“SANS, O-OH SANS, PLEASE!” Papyrus whimpered, embarrassingly, pathetically.

“just relax, i’ve got you.”

Sans’s pace started to converge into a rhythm. He stroked harder with more affectionate intention and purpose, the slippery essence meshed between his phalanges made it easier to slick over the magical organ, and Papyrus gasped out his name in a mantra.

Papyrus’s phalanges were clinging to Sans’s backside as if his brother was his lifeline. That beautiful, butterfly feeling exploded in his SOUL with each finger stroke. It was so pleasurable he couldn’t stop his shaking, his mouth hung open with an instance of sweat that raced down his mandible. The room was spinning in a daze, the concentrated euphoria of pain and relief dissolved into his nerves, and he succumbed to that drowning, suffocating depth, afraid of breaching the surface. His orgasm rippled out of him in a rush he felt with his entire body, like Sans was touching him everywhere. It was too much: the sensations, the sorrows, the tenderness, the intentions, the grief, the suffering.

Agony, agony, agony.

He whited out when it was over.

When he came to, unsure of how long, his SOUL smarted, pulsing in a stinging aftershock of overstimulation that made him wince with every breath.

When he opened his eye sockets, slightly blinded by tears he didn’t know he had, Sans was holding him gingerly, softly cooing at him to wake up. The tremor in Sans’s voice was evident, choked back by emotions too troubled to speak out.

Papyrus shuddered and blinked a few times more to reorient his senses. The colors around their living room weren’t blending as they should have; they were muddled and incandescent for what felt like the aftermath of a flurry, surreal dream. Instinctively, Papyrus bought his hand behind his sternum to scope out his SOUL, and tentatively, he soothed over its surface to feel for any remnants of soreness.

The texture was tender, like a bruise. But he finally felt at ease; the painful thrumming had melted into something light and complacent.

“papyrus?” Sans worried out his name, pulling him from his reverie.

Squished to Sans’s body, Papyrus pushed himself up until he was in a proper sitting position, but Sans’s grip was still firm on his ulna and radius, still terrified.

“…SANS,” Papyrus started slowly, lucidity finally returning to him. Nerves trembling from tainted pleasure, Papyrus cautiously brushed his phalanges over Sans’s metacarpals to rouse him.

“it’s okay, i’ve got you,” Sans head rose, eye lights meeting Papyrus’s sockets. They were glassy and and juddering, but to Papyrus’s relief, there were no tears.

For the longest time, they sat there, and Papyrus’s head was spinning, caught in a place between calmness in his body and a budding tension in his mind.

“I’m so sorry,” Sans mumbled finally. He wrapped his arms around his brother’s back, stoking soothingly at the spine before resting his forehead against Papyrus’s.

Papyrus asked genuinely and disoriented, “WHY? WHAT FOR?”

With a desolate stare, Sans responded with a tone which made Papyrus SOUL drop and seize, “for everything.”

 

* * *

 

After that, Sans did not interact, did not touch, did not speak.

The aching loneliness and longing he felt for days on end grew and grew and mutated until it became a frantic itching in his marrow, impelling words and apologies that were not well enough thought through.

His words--his sadness, his regrets--they all hung helplessly on an invisible wire, and never once did Papyrus and Sans resolve what happened, or what it meant, or what had changed.

Sighs were daily. The silence was soul-crushing.

Papyrus felt so alone.

And days later, Flowey found him again, burrowed in the den with chillingly blank eye sockets and a sorrowful frown.

From that Flowey could tell something was terribly off, and when he approached the lone skeleton camouflaging into the snow, a chill ran down him.

Because what he saw was something he had never witnessed before. Papyrus in utter despair.

“Papyrus?” Flowey murmured, carefully and timidly, as if a single word would shatter the last ebbing of light emanating from Papyrus’s SOUL. His petals shook anxiously and his smile was a bit too wide, "It's been a while friend. How are you holding up?"

Papyrus didn’t bother to turn his head, only mumbled which was almost too faint to hear, “I RUINED EVERYTHING.”

“ Is this about your...problem again?” Flowey said it cautiously.

Papyrus exhaled, shakily, “I TOLD SANS. I THOUGHT THAT MAYBE HE COULD HELP ME. BUT I ONLY MADE IT WORSE.”

_So much worse._

Flowey gave a nervous laugh, “Well, what did you expect from your trash bag of a brother? He’s really good at not helping anyone.”

Perhaps that was the wrong thing to say, because Papyrus cringed and curled further into himself, “WHAT DOES IT EVEN MATTER?”

Flowey stared, focusing on the small, abundant patterns and tessellations of the snowflakes sprinkled on the red of Papyrus’s scarf. They reminded him of dust.

“What do you mean?”

There was only a single sound of Papyrus shifting quietly in the snow, and for an agonizing moment of waiting--Flowey was never wholly patient--Papyrus spoke, “SANS WAS RIGHT, NONE OF IT MATTERS, AND WE’RE STUCK DOWN HERE. WE CAN’T DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT, AND I WON’T GET ANY BETTER.”

So tiny, “AM I REALLY SO TERRIBLE?”

Harrowed, Flowey backed away, offended by this sudden uncharacteristic display. “Papyrus?” Flowey continued, urgently now, “...Papyrus, look at me.”

Flowey ran his desperate gaze between Papyrus’s somber face and scars, imagining all the horrid scenarios and resets he put his best friend through and hating himself more because of it. This timeline wasn’t meant for Papyrus. His fangs caught into a vice-grip to retort the desperation into watery-eyed fury and frustration at just how _dumb_ Papyrus was.

Because if Flowey had any sympathy left, he would place it all on Papyrus, and to see the skeleton so bitter and broken, it resonated something snarling and protective and angry inside him. All his difficult work to do something good in this trial, to cater to Papyrus’s general, pestering optimism, it all meant nothing.

It infuriated him.

“Would you stop it,” Flowey started, inching closer to Papyrus’s immobile form and rage ebbing in every tendril of his frame, “…Just, STOP IT!”

“You’re NOT supposed to say things like that! Don’t you dare be this, Papyrus. Of all things, be naïve, be foolish, be _stupid_ , but do not be this,” Flowey spat with enough heated fervor to melt the snow drift surrounding them, speaking tragically in the face of Papyrus’s apathy.

“Because, b-because…I still BELIEVE in you! You can do better!” Flowey roared with pride and fondness, fresh tears spritzing from his eyes and bouncing on his petals, “…Even if you don’t think so!”

He said it out of consideration for the Papyrus he used to know. His gratitude for Papyrus’s everything, for all of the skeleton’s past efforts and pressing persistence to guide him through walls he couldn’t tread around.

“So, so…” Flowey’s voice trembled, whimpering with a quiet snivel, “I’ll fix it. I promise. I’ll fix it.”

The momentary oath he vowed to Papyrus, his choice to preserve this world, and whatever transgressions haunted him from his past; Flowey felt the stirrings of his DETERMINATION bleed into the empty vessels of his bulk.

With a wet, shuddering breath he declared, “You remember my special power, don’t you, Papyrus?”

The skeleton didn’t respond. Stiff, still, empty. None of this was Papyrus.

“Are you listening? This will all be like a bad dream.”

He didn’t bother to wait for Papyrus to answer, avoiding even the slightest quantity of self-doubt and second guessing.

With all the conviction he could muster in his soulless prison of a body, he reached for his SAVE file.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *bites nails*
> 
> I have serious cold feet over this honestly, and I was very apprehensive of sharing this. But I just want to stop looking at it. Thank you for reading all the way through that mess. 
> 
> Originally, this was intended to be a lenghty one-shot but I broke it up into two chapters.


End file.
